Archive for January, 2009

Happy New Year readers! Welcome to Issue 8. We seemed to have an unintentional theme of sentimentality this time around; there are some sweet pieces. The holidays over, I’m hoping that you writers will make a resolution to dust off your short stories and submit them somewhere … hey, how about here? As always, we are looking for nice cover art as well. Happy reading.

I hear the first whimper in my sleep, and my brain tries to work it into a dream. It’s just a puppy, sleep on, sleep on. But the second cry is louder, more insistent. My eyes pop open, dry and bleary, searching for the red numbers on the VCR that will tell me how longRead more…

(Thanks to Michelle Robson for the title) Wade Miller saw the girl standing in the darkness outside the laundromat’s window. She reminded him of a fawn, gangly and stalky, with wet brown eyes. Wade glanced at the clock hanging above the row of slumbering dryers. Almost midnight. He wondered what a teenage girl was doingRead more…

It is cold inside the armor; heavy cold, like always. She suppresses a shiver (for Real Women do not shiver) and attempts to flex her face beneath the Mask, but it has been securely attached, allowing only minimal room for breathing, much like the iron Ribs reducing her waist to a desirable size. She raisesRead more…

It is said that the dead have no touch, no sight, no taste or smell, but only hearing. As a younger man I derided the belief as mere superstition. Now I know the truth of it — the last thing I saw was Aeswyth’s hand rising to close my eyes, and then the pain stopped,Read more…

The youngest one stands on the peak of the roof, which is not very high for the house is small and squat. Jo-Jo is six, blond and pretty. His seven brothers and sisters are not pretty, and they hate him for being what they wished they were. “The angels told me to climb up high,”Read more…

“Rina.” He has never called her by her full name. She does not ask or wonder why. She knows. He places a tray of silver apples near her hands. Silver, not red. She dreams of peaches in the summer sky. “Come,” he whispers. She shakes her head, half weeps. “You know I cannot.” “You willRead more…

Grandpa Joe is sitting Indian-style in the snow wearing nothing but his underwear. It is February 1st. We just had a medium-sized snowfall. Decent enough to have an excellent snowball fight. Nana is standing at the window, gasping, hand to her heart. She just spotted him. She flies past me carrying an armful of blanketsRead more…